


Replay, Replay, Replay

by milestofu



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 07:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15576834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milestofu/pseuds/milestofu
Summary: Waylon looks at Miles and can't help but to wonder.





	Replay, Replay, Replay

**Author's Note:**

> I had the dawning realization the other day that I just... really love these boys, so I had my friend generate me a prompt and used it as a base to write something about them. Please enjoy what might as well be an example of how not to communicate.
> 
>  **Written for the prompt:** 134\. "Are you scared… Then why won't you look at the screen?"
> 
> Typical Outlast universe related gore, violence, etc. warnings apply!

Waylon knows everyone deals with trauma differently. For him, he deals with it by taking a list of medications that's longer than a CVS receipt and compartmentalizing the things that happened to him at Mount Massive as if they're documents on his laptop. He right clicks, creates a new folder, assigns it an appropriate name, and stores the memories inside subfolder after subfolder until they're buried and only accessible when he deliberately clicks through. This way of thinking as if he himself is a computer works for him; he not sure it'd work for anyone else.

And when Waylon looks at Miles, who seems so composed and put together despite everything, he can't help but to wonder: what works for Miles? Does he organize his trauma into folders like Waylon? Miles is a journalist, so perhaps he writes about his trauma as if he were writing an article for publication?

As quickly as the thought comes, Waylon dismisses it because Miles has complained on more than one occasion about how difficult writing is for him now because of his missing fingers, and oh God, if that doesn't make Waylon's heart sink. It's his fault Miles is missing his fingers. If he never sent that email, Miles wouldn't be stuck cooped up in a stuffy hotel room with him in the middle of who the fuck cares Iowa under FBI witness protection.

He feels guilty that Miles' life has become burdened, but he's learned not to voice that guilt out loud anymore; the last time he did, Miles had gotten angry and told him—in his own words—to "shut the fuck up, Park." There were a few other choice expletives used, and Waylon, to his credit, listened and hasn't brought it up since.

(That doesn't mean he doesn't think about it, though.)

Waylon knows Miles knows he thinks about it because when he does, Miles gets this scrunched up, constipated look on his face which Waylon has learned means he's angrily simmering, words barely kept at bay. Miles never says a word.

Waylon appreciates the restraint since he doesn't think he can't  _not_  think about the guilt. If he isn't allowed his own thoughts, then what does he have left? He doesn't have a job anymore and he no longer has his family since the last time he heard, Lisa and the boys were thousands of miles away from him, their lives uprooted because of his choice to expose Murkoff.

(He feels guilt about that, too.)

All Waylon has now is his thoughts, his footage, and his testimony for the upcoming trial.

He has nothing else.

It's for this reason, or perhaps an unhealthy obsession that he's developed, that he watches his footage a lot these days. At first, he couldn't bear to look at it or even  _think_  about looking at it. Now, things are different, and he watches it on repeat, analyzing every little detail. He doesn't even flinch anymore when Eddie's on screen, calling him darling, and proclaiming that soon they'll be husband and wife.

Most times, Waylon sits in the living room on the couch, his own heavy breathing coming through the tinny sounding speakers of his laptop, and one day, Miles sits down beside him. Waylon almost doesn't notice him at first—too focused on watching and filing away anything he might've missed previously for future reference. However, he does notice, and he startles, his heart rate accelerating rapidly, and his laptop shifts on his lap at the sudden movement. It's thanks to Miles' quick reflexes that the laptop doesn't crash to the ground, and knowing Waylon's luck these days, break into a million pieces.

"So," Miles starts, letting go of the laptop once it's securely resting on Waylon's lap and not in danger of falling. "Whatcha watching?"

It's a redundant question, and they both know it. Waylon takes a few steadying breaths to slow the racing of his heart and he reaches forward, pausing the video on an ugly zoom in of Eddie's smiling face. Waylon stares at it for a few moments, focuses in on Eddie's teeth, and contemplates.

"My footage," Waylon says eventually. "From the asylum," he adds as an afterthought. It's unnecessary.

Miles hums, then asks, "Can I watch it with you?"

Waylon doesn't know how to answer that. Miles has never seen his footage before; he's never asked, and Waylon's never offered. The same goes for Miles' footage, which Waylon has heard about in passing during the months leading up to the trial but hasn't seen.

Waylon looks from Eddie's teeth to Miles' reflection in the black of his laptop's screen, then replies, "Yeah, sure."

He presses play, and playback resumes. Miles watches in silence beside him and he doesn't have much of a reaction to anything. When onscreen Waylon's laying naked on the table, a saw blade between his legs, spinning and spinning, getting closer and closer to his cock, Miles doesn't grimace. When Eddie's skewered and onscreen Waylon's relieved and slightly crazed laughter can be heard, Miles doesn't bat an eyelash.

Instead, he sits beside Waylon on the couch with a perfectly blank expression on his face.

However, when onscreen Waylon's crumpled on the ground from a stab wound to the stomach courtesy of one Jeremy Blaire, Miles does have a reaction. His body language grows tense, his shoulders drawing back, and his lips draw into a thin line. Waylon finds himself watching Miles instead of the video, morbidly fascinated. The moment the Walrider appears, flinging Jeremy around as if he were a plaything and not a living, breathing human being, Miles jerks and looks in the opposite direction of the screen.

Jeremy screams and screams until he no longer has lungs to scream with.

Miles' adam's apple bobs in his throat.

"Miles," Waylon breathes, having come to a realization. "Are you… scared?"

("Of the Walrider?")

"What the fuck? No," Miles all but snaps at him.

He still isn't looking at the screen and Waylon briefly glances at it. Miles misses seeing himself in the video, standing on the front steps of Mount Massive, surrounded by thousands of nanites, the swarm buzzing wildly around him in an enraged cacophony.

"Then why won't you look at the screen?" Waylon asks, looking back to Miles, and pressing deeper into an infected and festering wound. He wants to know—he  _needs_  to know. "Miles—"

"I don't want to fucking talk about it, Park," Miles practically spits and stands up from the couch. He staggers, nearly tripping as if he's unaware how long his own legs are. "So don't fucking ask," he says and then he's gone.

Waylon hears the sound of Miles' bedroom door slam shut.

Waylon shifts his attention back to his laptop. The video has ended, and the replay button stares back at him. It's then he realizes that he doesn't know _how_ Miles deals with his trauma because Miles  _hasn't_  dealt with his trauma. Waylon sits there for a long while in the blessed silence.

Then, he presses replay.


End file.
